Allan 


GIFT   OF 


a 


SAN  GABRIEL  MELODIES 

AUBREY  jlLLAN  GRAVES 
•W 


BENSON    PRINTING    CO..  NASHVILLE 


DEDICATION 

Flowing  through  Georgetown,  Texas,  the  seat 
of  Southwestern  University,  is  the  beautiful  San 
Gabriel  River,  scene  of  many  student  pleasures 
and  outings.    This  clear,  slowly-moving  stream 
courses  through  a  picturesque  country  of  pic- 
turesque people,  and  gives  to  the  old  college 
town  an  atmosphere  all  its  own.    These  verses, 
written  for  the  most  part  in  the  environs  of  this 
tuneful  old  river,  are  dedicated  to  my 
Fellow-Southwesterners  of 
1918-1921. 


497965 


For  permission  to  reprint  certain  of  these  verses,  grate- 
ful acknowledgment  is  made  to  editors  of  the  South- 
western University  "Megaphone" ;  to  Dr.  Henry  T. 
Schnittfyind,  editor  of  "The  Poets  of  the  Future" ;  to 
Mr.  Hilton  R.  Creer  of  the  "Dallas  Journal" ;  and 
to  Professor  W .  W .  Lyman,  editor  of  "Figs  from 
California." 


ALONG  SAN  GABRIEL  WAY 

Along  San  Gabriel  Way 
The  flowers  bloomed  but  yesterday; 
And  every  creature  beneath  the  sun 
Found  Life  a  course  of  mirth  and  fun; 
And  every  thought  was  light  and  gay 

Before  Love  came. 

Along  San  Gabriel  Way 
A  richer  foliage  grew  one  day, 
While  breezes  mild  and  moonlight  pale 
Mingled  with  Love's  old  golden  tale; 
And  Life  grew  sweeter  with  each  day 

When  Love  had  come. 

But  no  longer  does  the  sway 
Of  Beauty  hold  San  Gabriel  Way; 
The  flowers  all  have  withered  brown; 
The  shrubs  have  all  been  trampled  down; 
And  in  my  heart  grey  shadows  stay 

Since  Love  has  gone. 


THE  TYPIST 

/  love  the  music 

Of  my  typewriter  at  work. 

There  is  melody  in  its  tapping 

As  in  the  golden  harmony 

Of  a  thousand  harps, 

Or  the  crying  of  a  steel  guitar. 

I  love  the  music 

Of  my  typewriter  at  work: 

For  the  rhythm  of  its  tapping 

Is  the  beating  of  my  heart. 

We  have  been  close  friends — 

My  typewriter  and  I — 

The  little  I  have  known  of  life, 

We  have  known  together, 

And  it's  the  only  instrument 

I  have  learned  to  play  upon. 

Into  it,  I  have  fingered 

The  feelings  I  would  have  uttered, 

Had  I  only  the  voice 

Of  a  Galli-Curci. 


/  love  the  music 

Of  my  typewriter  at  work; 

For  through  the  years 

It  has  earned  me  bread  and  Tvine. 

Through  its  strange  music 

I  have  given  to  my  soul 

Its  expression; 

Through  its  many  tunes 

I  have  beaten  out  my  sorrow 

And  my  bursting  songs  of  joy! 


BLUE-BIRD  OF  HAPPINESS 

//on;  /  miss  you,  little  blue-bird,  since  you  have 

flown  from  me! 
Always  in  the  boundless  night-time,  I  pursue  you 

as  you  flee. 
Far  too  sweet  your  notes  to  linger,  and  too  sweet 

your  song  to  stay — 
All  too  soon  your  song  was  broken  and  you, 

frightened,  flew  away. 

I  remember,  little  blue-bird,  how  you  came  to  be, 

How  I  woke  to  find  you  singing,  singing  in  the 
heart  of  me; 

How  I  sang  full-throated  with  you,  free  from 
thought  of  grief  or  care, 

Till  you  flew  from  out  my  heart  and  left  but  dis- 
mal sorrow  there! 

No  longer  does  your  singing  call  me  up  to  greet 

the  dawn, 

But  forever  I  am  searching,  always  on,  forever  on! 
Little  blue-bird,  how  I  miss  you,  how  I  follow  as 

you  flee! 
Then  wake  to  know  you  never  can  come  singing 

back  to  me! 


FOR  OLD  TIME'S  SAKE 

/  met  her  far  away  from  home — 
A  college  chum  of  mine — 
We  two  had  "wandered  far  apart 
Since  merry  college  time. 
Right  warmly  did  I  greet  the  lass; 
Joyous  laughter  did  I  make — 
O  no!  I  did  not  love  the  girl — 
'Twas  just  for  Old  Time's  Sake! 

Each  night  we  had  our  little  chats — 
Talking  of     .     .     .     many  things; 
Living  our  college  life  all  over, 
And  playing  our  college  games. 
Then  one  night  I     .     .     .     asked  her  hand- 
Now  dont  my  deed  mistake! 
For  when  I  finally  married  her 
It  was  for  Old  Time's  Sake! 


YOUTH  PASSES  IN  AN  HOUR 

Youth  passes  in  an  hour — 
/  would  spend  it  in  a  song! 
Knowing  how  little  time 
Is  left  for  singing, 
V/hen  Youth  gives  way 
And  Time  comes  bringing 
Weariness  and  forgetfulness 
Oppressing  and  long. 

So  I  give  myself  to  singing 

With  the  wind  and  jubilant  streams, 

Hoping,  when  Youth  passes 

With  my  song, 

Some  fragment  of  a  tune  may  stay 

To  keep  the  time  from  seeming  long 

When  I  am  old  and  sleepy 

And  tired  of  dreams. 


CERTAINTIES 

/  cannot  know  the  purpose  of  life, 
The  Master-Plan  of  which  "We  are  par/, 
Or  in  that  moment  that  follows  death 
Whither  our  flashing  souls  may  dart; 


I  do  not  know  why  men  must  love, 
Must  dream,  aspire,  gain,  lose,  then  die  — 
Why  some  can  only  see  the  dust, 
Why  others  only  love  the  sky. 

But  of  the  little  that  I  know, 

These  verities  I  feel  most  true: 

God  left  in  my  heart  a  store-room  of  love  — 

For  all  bright  things,  for  life  and  for  you. 


TO  PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY 

O  clear-voiced  minstrel  of  the  dewy  dawn, 

0  bright-eyed  youth  who  caught  the  skylark'*  song, 
With  friendly  hands  I  come  to  place  upon 

Thy  brow  the  laurels  that  so  well  belong. 
When  for  the  dawn  the  Cods  of  morning  wait, 
Thy  melodies  immortal  come  to  me, 
And  sorrowing  at  thy  cold,  untimely  fate, 

1  wonder  at  what  might  have  come  of  thee. 
O  thou  whose  almost  perfect  nature  lacked 
So  little  to  have  made  a  perfect  whole, 

If  Cod  had  only  granted  thee  thy  time 
What  riches  might  have  issued  from  thy  soul! 
Had  Cod  but  lengthened,  tempered  down  thy  pace, 
No  other  bard  would  share  thy  lofty  place! 


TO  ROBERT  G.  MOOD,  JR. 

Upon  my  wall  a  picture  hangs. 

It  is  not  tinted  nor  framed  in  gold. 
It  is  just  a  simple  likeness  of 

A  boy-pal  I  knew  of  old. 


And  strangers,  chancing  in,  take  note 
Perhaps;  and  in  a  casual  way 

May  mat^e  some  idle  query,  then 
Forget,  and  from  my  Study  stray. 

But  to  my  mind,  a  feeling  vast 
And  deeper  does  it  daily  bring: 

The  feeling  that  a  dumb  man  has 
For  one  who  teaches  him  to  sing. 

A  simple  picture  it  may  be 

That  hangs  upon  my  Study  wall; 
But  it  brings  back  a  love  for  him, 

His  faults  and  virtues,  all  in  all. 


DISILLUSIONMENT 

/  remember,  little  girl, 

How  you  loved  once,  how  you  caressed 
That  tiny  plaything  like  a  child 

And,  crooning,  held  it  to  your  breast; 
And  then  the  sudden  grief  that  broke 

Upon  your  fancies  like  a  gust 
When,  after  search,  you  found  the  babe 

You  loved,  a  heap  of  rags  and  dust! 

I  remember,  too,  how  we  loved  once, 

How  Heaven  came  down  to  earth, 
How  the  smile  of  Cod  lay  on  our  hearts 

And  filled  them  brimming  with  mirth. 
But  now  you  are  gone,  little  girl, 

No  beauty  do  the  eyes  see  ever — 
How  much  is  Love!  How  little  is  Life! 

Life!    This  thing  we  loved  together! 


TO  A  SUICIDE 

Poor,  erring  weakling,  creature  of  the  dust, 
You  who  found  life  so  cold  and  grey  at  dawn, 

Who  felt  its  bitter  chill,  and  could  not  trust 
To  find  it  warmer  when  the  mist  had  gone; 

0  poor,  bewildered  youth  who  chose  to  sleep, 
Never  dreaming  the  warm  bright  sun  would  reign, 

Who  failed,  then  flung  back  to  his  Maker's  keep 
The  Life  He  gave,  when  first  it  met  with  pain; 

If  your  poor  soul,  doomed  to  its  shady  land, 
Can  now  perceive  all  that  it  threw  to  waste, 

1  wonder  if  at  last  you  understand 

And  do  not  curse  your  ruthless,  blundering  haste. 
Do  you  not  now  despise  each  fellow- ghoul, 
And  mutter  to  yourself,  "thou  fool!  thou  fool!" 


WHEN  I  GO  HOME 

When  I  go  home,  I  have  such  fun 
When  all  the  chores  of  day  are  done, 
When  night  has  come  and  supper  is  over, 
I  become  an  "onerp"  youthful  rover. 
Before  midnight  makes  me  retire 
I  place  my  chair  before  the  fire, 
And  nod  and  dream  of  far-off  things 
Until  the  dying  log-fire  sings 
Me  off  to  sleep. 

When  I  go  home  where  loved-ones  stay, 
I  dwell  upon  each  yesterday; 
The  shouting  children  on  the  run 
Recall  Life's  first  fine  careless  fun. 
Suddenly  I  feel  the  past  return, 
And  wordly  cares  all  seem  to  burn, 
While  a  romp  with  the  kids — an  hour  of  joy- 
Makes  me  again  feel  like  a  boy 
When  I  go  home. 


DA  LEETLA  DAGO 

'Eeza  leetla  'aff-breed  dago, 
But  da  'art  ees  mighty  gay, 

An  ees  allus  full  uf  gladness 

While  'e  romp  da  "whole  long  day. 

'E  ees  'appy  in  da  alley 

Where  da  dirty  shanty  ees; 

An  'e  no  would  geeve  'eez  jacket 
For  da  suit  uf  da  poleece. 

'E  ees  allus  love  'eez  daddy 
An  ees  by  'im  all  'e  can; 

'E  ees  glad  ta  ride  da  wagon 
While  I  peddle  da  banan. 

'E  no  know  about  da  sorrow 
An  da  'art-ache  uf  'eez  dad; 

'E  ees  teenies  'at  life  ees  playin 
An   'at  evrateeng  ees  glad. 

An'  I  no  would  'ave  'im  learn  'at 
Eet  ees  'ard  an  full  uf  pain, 

'At  da  wor sheep  uf  my  dago 
Ees  in  life  da  bigges'  gain. 

'Eeza  leetla  'aff-breed  dago, 
Playin  weet  'eez  broken  knife; 

But  'e  love  da  wind  an  sunshine 
An  'e  feel  da  joy  uf  life. 


I  FEAR  THE  WAKING  MOMENTS 

/  fear  the  waking  moments 

That  follow  sleep! 
All  through  the  course  of  day 

Intensely  I  live! 
Rigidly  I  ktep 
My  every  thought 
Fastened  on  my  work  and  my  play. 

And  in  the  lonely  night-time 

I  am  able  still 
To  think  of  common  things, 

The  little  events 
And  trifles  that  fill 
The  crowded  hours 
Till  sleep  bears  me  off  on  its  wings. 

But  in  the  waking  moments, 

I  am  not  so  strong! 
The  memory  of  you,  of  the  pain 

Of  losing     .     .     . 
Of  days  empty  and  long, 
Rush  mockingly  back 
Before  I  am  master  again! 


SURRENDER 

/  Would  not  censure, 

Now  that  the  brunt  is  past, 

Knowing  to  what  poor  ends 
Our  hates  bring  us  at  last. 

Though  your  favor  passed  so  soon, 

I  freely  forgive, 
Knowing  that  Love,  to  be  Love, 

Must  of  its  own  accord  live. 

Though  the  light  was  bright  in  my  eye, 
Though  the  heart-break  torture  still, 

Though  I  sorrow,  I  cannot  censure, 
For  Love  comes  not  of  the  Will. 

Deep  in  the  nature  of  things, 

Where  our  little  wishes  do  not  play, 
God  works  out  His  plans  for  us 

And  arranges  them  His  way. 

So  I  put  away  my  dreams, 
And  the  tenderest  hope  of  all, 

Knowing  how  Love  is  not  a  thing 
That  answers  to  beckon  or  call. 


RETURN 

Chriit, 

In  the  small,  forsaken  hours, 

When  others  are  asleep, 
When  nothing  remains,  save  the  moonlight, 

Whose  company  I  can  £eep; 
When,  weary  from  the  exacting  cares 

That  crorvd  the  ardent  day, 
I  try  in  vain  to  resummon  the  peace 

That  my  doubting  has  ta^en  away, 

I  do  not  find  it  so  easy  then 

To  boast  I  am  self-complete, 
That  the  story  of  Cod  is  only  a  myth, 

That  to  live  and  to  die  is  meet; 
For  the  Truth  comes  stealing  through  the  soul 

With  a  clearness  the  senses  can  see; 
And  feeling  secure  in  Thy  care,  I  surrender 

Myself  to  sleep  and  to  Thee. 


MY  OLE  BLACK-SPOTTED  DOG 

When  the  whole  wide  world  is  gloomy 

An  I  feel  all  down  an   out; 
When  my  brain  grows  tired  an   sluggish 

An   I  can  but  frown  an   pout, 
There  is  one  that  I  can  summon 

That  will  all  my  broodin    end — 
That's  my  ole  black-spotted  bird-dog — 

He's  my  ever  faithful  friend. 

When  the  clouds  hang  low  an9  heavy, 

An   the  weather's  bleat?  an   drear, 
When  there  seems  no  ray  o*  sunshine, 

Not  a  gleeful  word  o'  cheer, 
I  can  get  my  dog  an  rifle 

An  go  huntin  in  the  brake — 
O  it  seems  to  thrill  an   cheer  me, 

An   my  droopin*  spirits  wake. 

Cares  o'  life  an*  wordly  worries, 

I  can  leave  you  all  behind, 
When  a  gun  is  on  my  shoulder 

An'  a  holiday  is  mine! 
O  I  Imow  a  cure  for  grouches 

That  will  drive  away  their  fog! 
That's  to  smile  an   go  a'huntin 

With  my  ole  black-spotted  dog! 


TO  HIM  WHO  WAS  CRUCIFIED 

/  have  thought  much  on  You 

Who  were  nailed  to  the  cross; 
I  have  wept  for  pit])  of  You, 

For  Your  pain,  and  Your  loss 
Through  him  who  betrayed  You. 

I  have  murmured  aloud 
At  the  inhumanity 

And  the  brutality  of  the  crowd 
That  crowned  You  with  thorns. 

But  Brother,  for  we  are  sons 
Of  the  same  high  source, 

Are  Judas  and  Pilot  the  ones 
From  whom  You  have  suffered  most? 

Have  You  failed  to  feel 
Our  ungraciousness, 

Like  a  £ni/e,  steal 
Through  Your  heart? 

Loving  us  all, 
Have  You  not  sorrowed 

At  our  songs  of  hate,  and  the  ceaseless  call 
Of  our  bugles  of  war? 

You  who  died 
On  the  cross  at  Calvary, 

Have  we  not  crucified 
You,  even  as  they? 

Have  You  not  sorrowed  through  the  years 
For  the  little  thing  we  make  of  life, 

For  our  blunders,  and  our  needless  tears? 


I  AM  YOUR  LOVER,  LIFE! 

/  am  your  lover,  Life, 

Through  the  many  tunes  you  play! 
When  your  rhythm  is  slow  and  heavy 

When  its  lilting  turns  suddenly  gay. 

Whence  I  came,  whither  go, 

Are  tasks  too  great  for  me. 
I  only  k^ow  your  music  is  grand 

And  your  colors  are  bright  to  see! 

Trying  with  my  songs  to  match  your  music, 

Thus  do  I  wear  you  out; 
Knowing  I  must  wait  till  the  last  tune's  over 

To  learn  what  the  music  s  all  about. 


In  Memoriam 
SOUTHWESTERN    MEN 

Killed  in  the  War 


ROB  ROY  BROWN  ROY  JOBSON 

WES  L.  DULLER  HAL  JONES 

FRED  FRANCIS  CECIL  MCHENRY 

B.  H.  GARDNER  HERBERT  McNEiL 

ROBERT  GILBREATH  BURNS  PARTAIN 

EDWIN  HARDY  JOHN  H.  TRAYLOR 

J.  L.  HELLUMS  BEDFORD  WEAVER 

LLOYD  E.  WHITE 


HILLS  OF  SCOTLAND! 

This  poem  of  commemoration  was  Torilien  in  memory  of  U.  S.  Soldiers 
and  Sailors  TP/IO  are  buried  in  the  hills  along  the  coast  of  Scotland — In 
memory  of  those  who  shared  the  Tuscania's  fate. 

O  Land  of  Scotland,  sacred  hills, 
What  sweeter  fate  might  you  implore, 

What  greater  trust,  O  Scottish  rills, 
Or  gift  asfy  you,  or  honor  more, 

Than  have  the  graves  of  our  dead  braves 
Strewn  across  your  rocfyy  shore! 

In  them  you  have  a  sacred  trust, 
A  trust  that  you  must  rightly  £eep, 

For  never  was  there  more  noble  dust, 

Endowed  with  Freedom  s  love  more  deep, 

Than  those  brave  sons,  whose  courses  are  run, 
Who  lie  hushed  in  endless  sleep. 

Those  stalwart  men  and  youthful  boys 
Who  now  ma^e  part  of  your  rocfyy  clay, 

With  future  hopes,  and  dreams,  and  joys, 
At  Duty's  call  threw  all  away; 

And  though  each  brow  is  settled  now, 
They're  the  heroes  of  today! 


THE  CHANGE 

God!  But  it's  quiet  here  at  home! 

So  still  and  silent  all  the  day! 
With  not  a  sound  of  bursting  shell, 

With  not  a  buddy  to  bury  away. 
Time  was  I  only  knew  to  fight, 

To  chatter  death-songs  wild  and  loud. 
And  fight  with  other  boys  from  home, 

When  war  closed  around  us  like  a  cloud. 

With  lads  I  loved,  I  faced  the  Hun 

At  bloody  Marne  and  on  the  Aisne, 
And  fought  through  days  of  hellish  heat, 

Unmindful  of  the  countless  slain. 
I  have  crawled  all  night  in  mud  and  mire 

Out  there  where  bullets  rip  the  loam; 
I  have  heard  the  shrieks  of  shrapnel  there — 

Cod!  But  it's  quiet  here  at  home! 

But  now  those  damning  days  are  gone — 

No  longer  does  my  blood  race  hot — 
And  gone  is  every  comrade,  too, 

Each  silent  in  his  six-foot  plot. 
Today  I  hear  no  battle-shout, 

No  martial  notes  disturb  the  gloam — 
With  a  leg  blown  off,  and  a  lung  gassed  out — 

Cod!  But  it's  quiet  here  at  home! 


VALLEY  OF  THE  FALLEN 

They  are  there  in  swollen  numbers, 

They  are  there  in  all  their  plight; 
They  are  there  in  long,  deep  columns, 

Standing  silent  in  the  night. 
They  have  gathered  from  the  hill-sides, 

They  have  marched  in  from  the  plains; 
But  they're  each  the  other's  kinsman 

In  the  land  where  silence  reigns. 

They  are  coming  with  their  pack-sacks, 

Smeared  and  rusting  fast  with  blood; 
They  are  rising  from  their  slumbers 

In  the  murky  Flander's  mud. 
They  are  there  in  deep  formation 

With  their  faces  pale  and  drawn, 
For  they're  standing  last  inspection 

Before  they  sleep  forever  on. 

All  is  solemn,  all  is  quiet, 

All  is  still  from  rank  to  rank — 
Not  a  whisper  there  is  uttered, 

Not  a  sound  of  musket's  clank- 
They  have  gathered  in  the  moonlight 

For  their  final  grand  review, 
From  the  fields  of  fickle  battle 

And  the  dues  of  Waterloo. 


There  the  drummers  stand  attentive, 

Soon  to  beat  their  farewell  raps, 
There  a  million  men  are  waiting 

For  the  bugler's  final  taps. 
They  are  standing  there  together 

Before  the  moon  sets  wan  and  pa/e, 
For  it  is  then  they  sink  forever 

Beneath  the  grasses  of  the  vale. 


REMEMBER  US,  AMERICA! 

"America's  reaction  from  the  idealism  that  led  her  into  the  great 
World  War  has  inspired  this  poem  of  protest.  Its  author  is  a  young 
Texan  who  Was  born  in  Temple  in  1900.  Mr.  Craves  spent  three 
years  in  Southwestern  University,  Georgetown,  Texas,  and  is  now  tap- 
ing his  senior  year  at  the  University  of  California." — Hilton  R.  Greer, 
Editor  of  "Texas  Verse,"  Dallas  (Texas)  News. 

We  are  your  sons  who  fought  your  fight, 

Deep  in  the  mud  of  Flemish  rain, 
And  who,  when  Duty  called  us  forth, 

Chose  not  to  count  the  cost  or  pain. 
We  are  your  sons  who  paid  for  you 

Who  raise  our  voices  broken  and  sore, 
To  call  to  mind  a  trust  you  £eep, 

That  we  may  sleep  in  peace  once  more. 

Wake  and  speak,  America! 

Shake  off  the  spell  that  fastens  you! 
Bring  back  the  far-look  t°  your  eyes! 

Complete  the  task  $ou  swore  to  do! 
Shame  that  you  have  martyred  him 

Who  led  you  safely  through  your  fight, 
Why  have  you  scorned  his  lofty  dreams, 

Why  have  you  thrown  away  your  light! 


We  are  your  sons  "who  loved  you  well 

Who  can  no  longer  sleep  the  day. 
We  see  the  purpose  that  we  held 

Trampled  in  dust  and  thrown  away! 
We  fought  your  good  and  holy  fight, 

No  selfish  comfort  did  we  seek — 
Great  Cod!  Will  you  not  listen  now — 

We  are  your  martyred  sons  who  speak! 

O  fairest  land  of  all  the  world, 

Sweet  homeland  that  we  left  with  tears, 
Dream  on  your  dreams  of  brotherhood 

While  we  lie  silent  through  the  years. 
Turn  back  to  Cod,  America! 

Lift  up  your  troubled  face  again; 
And  keep  the  trust  we  left  with  you 

That  we  shall  not  have  died  in  vain. 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


AN     INITIAL    FINE    OF    25     CENTS 

WILL  BE  ASSESSED  FOR  FAILURE  TO  RETURN 
THIS  BOOK  ON  THE  DATE  DUE.  THE  PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  SO  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
DAY  AND  TO  $I.OO  ON  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 
OVERDUE. 


OCT  34  1933 


LD  21-50m-l,'3! 


1224, 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


